Lunch at No 10
by Roofran411
Summary: An everyday story of political folk: continuing the very ordinary life of Piers and Kate.


LUNCH AT NO.10

This story, like all my stories about Piers and Kate, is based on 'The Taming of the Shrew' by William Shakespeare, and the modern day adaptation by Sally Wainwright.

Piers and Kate belong to them and I have only borrowed them. I hope I am never asked to give them back.

They were brought to life by Rufus Sewell and Shirley Henderson, to whom I continually give my thanks.

I have given this a M rating for a little steaminess at the begiining .

* * *

><p><span>LUNCH AT NO.!O<span>

The flight was delayed due to a lightning strike of airport workers in Brussels. If they had taken action thirty minutes earlier, we could have stayed at the assembly in the warm but as it was, we were caught arriving at the airport, which had no heating until midnight when the strike was called off, and chilled to the marrow, we were able to board the plane. The flight home to Heathrow is only just over an hour and from there to Downing Street, slightly more than half an hour at that time of the night, but the cold had set in.

I said "Goodnight" to Matt, as the duty policeman tapped at the door for them to let me in.

I handed my briefcase to the duty secretary to take to my office and I went up the stairs, past the portraits of Downing Street incumbents of which I was the latest.

Up another flight to our flat.

The landing was dimly lit by a table lamp so my love had gone to bed; it was very late and he was always up very early with the boys. I debated whether to have a hot drink before going to bed but decided against it.

I went into the bathroom and took down my hair and undressed. I cleansed my face and cleaned my teeth, then went into our bedroom and slid into bed. I huddled around him putting my icy feet on his.

We turned together, like spoons, his arms crossed around me, my feet held between his while he gently rubbed some warmth into them with his gloriously warm ones.

He moved his hands to cup my breasts; he kissed my ear tentatively, questioningly, and I moved so that it was easier for him and he squeezed them and softly stroked and caressed them. It was heavenly to feel the warmth,_ and something else_, seep into me and I wriggled further against him. He kissed that little spot behind my ear, over and over, his fingers now on my nipples, soft, then hard, rolling them till I began to fill with that exquisite sensation that was both relaxing and arousing; my breath was quickening and I rubbed my head against his shoulder: his left hand smoothed across my ribs down to my navel, circling it around and around and down over my belly. It hesitated on my scar as he always did, his fingers tracing the length of it.

Down, down to my mound, cupping it, squeezing it gently, twisting the curls of my bush around his fingers, sliding them into me, into my wetness, spreading it, opening my lips wider until he was at my clit.

I caught my breath; I could feel his cock, hard and huge, pushing into the cleft of my behind, Aahh!

His finger worked my nub, his other hand on my nipple while his mouth kissed and licked my ear. And I... I gave up my mind and body to the delights of his love. Lost in it, turning when he wanted, onto my back taking him into me, moving with each of his thrusts, soft gasps with his, till he lay on me, spent. Ohh my love!

We turned to lie like spoons again...his arms around me, my hands on his.

We hadn't said anything, till at last I said softly, "I'm late."

I could feel the movement of the tiny muscles against my face as he opened his eyes.

He waited.

"Three days."

"You done a test?"

"No, not yet. Will you get one tomorrow? Not around here, mind you."

He nodded.

"I'm pretty sure, though. I was so nauseated this morning. Felt sick all day."

He moved a little.

"You didn't feel sick, last time."

"Well, I do this time."

He kissed me behind my ear and I put up my hand to touch his face.

"Well, that was pretty quick! Barely more than a few months since you stopped your injections? I thought they said it was likely to take a while ..."

I smiled.

"Obviously not."

"You must be bloody fertile."

"Or you!"

"Or both of us"

I smiled again and felt him smile too.

.

It was Wednesday; the Cabinet meeting began to break up, so I asked 'any other business?' and closed it pretty sharply, before someone could think of anything, and was gone upstairs.

We have the flat at the top of Number 10.

Strictly speaking, it isn't a flat, being the two top floors but when we moved in, the top floor was full of junk that other PMs had discarded.

Tony and Gordon, both having young families too, had lived in the bigger flat above Number 11, but I wanted number 10. So I had the top floor cleared, a second bathroom installed and the extra rooms re- decorated for us to use, giving us a spacious apartment.

It was remarkably quiet; I called Piers and wandered from kitchen to dining room, then realised, of course I was early. It was just twelve, and he had gone to get the triplets from nursery school. I went into the sitting room and sat on the sofa. I kicked off my shoes, and put my feet up.

I found I didn't like the silence; I had got used to the boisterousness of my husband and his sons.

I missed it, missed them, where were they? Then the flat door banged and I could hear the clumping on the stairs and the chatter as they came up.

"Daddy, Daddy, can we go to Quentin's for tea?"

"Can we, Daddy?"

"Myohpurrh say we can. Can we? Please? "

Our sons learnt to talk early and have been doing so non-stop ever since but I suppose, as both their father and mother are pretty articulate, it is only to be expected.

A barrage of sound struck me.

"Mummy, Mummy, Mummy "as they launched themselves at me while my love smiled at me.

My heart gave a little bump as it still did, even after almost five years of marriage.

Our sons have the same enchanting smile; as they have his looks, his strong sturdy body, his mop of black curls and huge green eyes.

To look at them, you would not think I had anything to do with producing them. They are their father's sons in every way, noisy, laughing, fun-loving and I adored all four of them.

"You've finished early." he said, above their voices.

"Mmm, the discussions dwindled away, so I said 'meeting closed' and buggered off PDQ."

"Mummy, Quentin askeded us to tea."

"Can we go, Mummy? Myohpurrh said."

"Did you get ... You know?"

"Yep" he put his hand in the pocket of his dreadful old fake fur overcoat; he likes it, so who am I to object to it? At least it is not his mini skirt and fishnets.

He threw a small chemist's bag to me, and we shared little smiles with each other.

"Coats off, boys, and stop jumping on Mummy. Still feeling grotty, my love?"

"Can we go, Mummy?"

"No, it passed off. I'm ok. Now chicks, Daddy will ring Quentin's mummy and ask about it..."

"No!" There was a tirade of dissent. "No! Not his mummy, his MYOHPURRH."

"Who is Myohpurrh? Is that her name?"

"No!" they said all together."Her name is Kylie. She is his Myohpurrh."

Then Peter said "She looks after him for his mummy. His MY OHP PURRH."

We looked at each other, shrugging, trying to puzzle it out. Then Piers said, "Ohhh, my au pair. She is Quentin's au pair?"

"Yes! Can we go?"

"We'll see. Shall I ring down for lunch, Kate? "

We sat down to lunch, and the usual pandemonium reigned.

"Dear God! What will it be like with another one?"

"Your idea."

"You didn't disagree!"

"You persuaded me, using low underhanded means."

"You didn't need much persuading!"

He smiled.

"No."

"Mummy, Mummy, Quentin said... um... what he say, Rupe't?"

"He said Daddy's a lor."

" Yeh. An ' he said we's a lor too."

"We **are**;** and** we are." I corrected.

"Are we, Mummy? Is Daddy a lor? "

" **Lord**. Yes."

"What's a lor?"

"Is it nasty?"

" No, it isn't nasty. It is a special name some people have. Daddy's special name is Lord Charlbury. You are Lord Peter Crick, Michael is Lord Michael Crick, and Rupert is Lord Hazlington. Now finish your lunch. Michael, don't kick your chair!"

"Are you a lor' Mummy?"

"No, Michael, I am a Lady; my special name is Lady Charlbury."

Rupert said, "All mummies are ladies. "

I gave up.

Three pairs of big green eyes looked at me, waiting.

I didn't feel up to differentiating between gender and title so I left it.

"Mummy, we haven't got a Myohpurrh."

This from Michael.

"No."

"Why?"

With the condescension of being the eldest by fifteen and twenty five minutes, Rupert said "Daddy looks after us. Mummy's got a Matt and a Tom to look after her."

The other two looked at him while they thought about this, then nodded with all the wisdom of nearly four.

"Don't kick your chair, Michael."

Peter played with some peas on his plate. Taking his plate away, I said "Right. Who is ready for pudding?"

"Ray! Rice pudding!" Loud clapping of hands; rice pudding is a great favourite; they tucked in enthusiastically. Like their father, they enjoy their food.

"I like rice pudding bestest."

"I like jam roly poly. "

"Michael, stop kicking your chair."

Peter stirred the jam into his pudding and was licking his spoon.

"Quentin's Myohpurrh hasn't got a gun. Mummy's Matt has."

Piers and I looked at each other. My heart was thumping.

"How do you know that, sunshine?"Piers asked calmly.

"I sawed it, Daddy."

"An' Petey tole us and we looked and we sawed it too."

"And Mummy's Tom's got one too."

Mummy's Matt and Mummy's Tom; Detective Sergeant Matthew Elliott and Detective Sergeant Thomas Greenwood, Armed Division, Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police, assigned to the protection of the Prime Minister.

"Did you talk to Matt about it?"

Peter shook his head. "Mummy says her dectiffs are very busy and we mussent bovver 'em."

"Mummy is right. If you want to know anything, ask me. OK guys?"

They nodded.

"What are we doing sarfernoon, Daddy?"

"Shall we watch Mummy on telly?"

"NO!" they all said.

"Well, that's telling me."

"Would you like to go to see Granny?"

"Yes!"

Piers and Mummy had never become very close, she could drive him around the twist with her some of her ways, but he knew that they adored Mummy and she adored them, and he was scrupulous in taking the boys to see her.

"When are you going to do your test thingy?"

"I might do it before I go to the Commons."

We shared smiles.

Peace reigned as they finished their pudding.

"Is it a real one?" Peter again. He is the quiet, thoughtful one.

"Is what a real one?"

"Matt's gun."

I have learnt in the past three years that, with children, every time you think that something is forgotten, back it comes again.

I looked at Piers.

Like all PC twenty first century Parents, we decided that all our children's questions should be answered truthfully and accurately. No lies. half-truths or euphemisms. They should be told whatever they asked !

_**Only not this. **_

_**Not This!**_

I did not want my sons to know that the nice dectiffs who looked after Mummy, carried real guns because some lunatic out there might want to kill her.

I looked at my love praying that he understood what I was trying to say.

"Noo, of course not. Cup of tea, my love? Orange juice for you boys ." Adroitly changing the subject as he made the tea and poured juice for the boys.

He wasn't as adroit as he thought; there it came again.

"Is Tom's real?"

"No." shaking his head.

They drank their juice.

"Mummy, has Matt got a little boy?"

"Matt? I don't think so, darling."

"P'r'Shaking my head aps he was looking after it for Tom's little boy. Has Tom got a little boy?"

"Perhaps." I said "Now I am going to have a shower before I go back to work."

I had reached the door when Rupert said, "Daddy's got a real gun and John Matthews."

John Matthews is our game keeper at Hazlington and Piers does have a shot gun there too.

"Yes darling. They are for the foxes who eat the birds in the woods at Hazlington. John Matthews looks after the birds and Daddy helps him sometimes. But we don't need guns in London." Shaking my head, I wrinkled my nose in distaste.

"There are foxes in Lunnon too. Daddy tole us."

Four pairs of big green eyes were looking at me, one pair laughing cynically, saying "let's see you get out of this one."

"**London; and** Daddy **told **you" I corrected."Yes. Well" I said firmly, passing the buck. "Daddy can tell you some more. I am going to shower."

"Can we ask Granny 'bout the foxes in Lunnon?"

"Yes! Good idea! You do that. "

"Has Granny got a gun?"

"Does she shoot the foxes?"

"You can ask her that too!"

There was a snort from my beloved and he hid his laughing mouth behind his mug.

So I went and peed on my strip of plastic and had my shower.

The idea of them asking my exquisitely elegant, fragile mother if she toted a gun around London to shoot foxes, gave me a fit of the giggles every time I thought of it.

When I kissed my love as I left for the Commons, he raised his eyebrows at me enquiringly, and I smiled back, nodding in confirmation, and kissed him again.

"Clever girl!"

"Yes I am!" I said complacently. "And now for Ed Milliband."

If I can handle my husband _and _my sons' questions_ and_ get pregnant again at forty two, I can certainly handle the Leader of the Opposition.

NO PROBLEM!


End file.
